Shadow Ops: Fortress Frontier-ARC (pdf conv.) (11 page)

Bookbinder had eaten in military DFACs his entire career.

In all that time, none of them had ever run out of milk. He looked at the juice case. It was powered, at least, but three-quarters empty.

Bookbinder turned to one of the goblin contractors wrestling a stack of cardboard boxes from behind the refrigerated cases.

“What’s up here?” he pointed at the fridge.

The creature gave him a blank look, then turned to a navy non rate, who stuffed his clipboard into his armpit as he approached the colonel. “Can I help you with something, sir?”

“Yes, what’s up with the milk and the juice? I’m the J1 here, and I didn’t see any reduction in the standard food order.”

“I know who you are, sir. There’s been a rationing order put out for all perishables, effective immediately. Came down last night at 1800.”

“A rationing order? Why?”

“I don’t know, sir.” He gestured to the fruit and salad bar.

“That’s starting to run low, too.”

The comms blackout. Fitzsimmons’ sudden vacation, and now this.

“Who runs food services here?” Bookbinder asked. “It’s Major Holland, right? I didn’t tell him to ration anything.”

“No, sir. He got it straight from Colonel Taylor himself.”

Taylor. That meant if he was going to get any answers, it would mean yet another confrontation, and Taylor had made it clear what he could expect from another one of those.

Something is very wrong. Supply issues are your problem.

You have to find out what’s going on.
Even if it meant facing Taylor? He was terrified of the man’s threats and rage. But he was angry that he had to worry about either one.

Bookbinder threw his tray down on top of the minifridge in disgust and stormed out.

As he moved through the entryway, he noted the corkboard clustered with slips of paper thumbtacked over one another, advertising the various events on the FOB. Announcements for the perimeter 5K run and the Sunday morning prayer breakfast were crowded out by the official notices, warning FOB residents of the dangers of Source flora and fauna (if you don’t recognize it, don’t touch it! report to your first sergeant immediately), reminding them to report suspected Latency or negligent magical discharges.

But one sign dominated the board’s center, stopping him dead in his tracks. by order of the camp commandant: all nonessential range use is canceled until further notice. waivers will be extended only for weapons requalifications. unit armorers are to report to sfc scott for instructions on ammunition conservation and dispensing.

It was dated that day.

Perishable food. Ammunition. I don’t care if he does kick my
teeth in. We’ve got a severe supply problem here.

Bookbinder marched out onto the plaza, looking for Taylor.

With each step he took, his legs grew heavier as the cloud of fear around him coalesced into molasses.
And then I will keep kicking
you, until you piss blood for the rest of your natural life.

Of course, Taylor was trying to scare him. But fear robbed Bookbinder of all perspective. All he could smell was the sour taint of Taylor’s breath, all he could feel was the pulse pound of the man’s tangible anger.

He was almost glad when the indirect hit.

A deafening bang rocked the plaza, as a pillar of flame shot up over one of the blast barricades not fifty feet distant. A loud succession of booms sounded off in the distance. Bookbinder could see a cloud of circling rocs in the distance. The giant eaglelike birds looked small from here, but he knew up close they were bigger than a tank.

The SASS perimeter again. The goblins were launching another attack, maybe hoping to break through before the defenses were fully repaired.

The siren began to wail, calling all personnel to action stations.

Men and women raced past him, pulling weapons off their shoulders and checking magazine wells. The low growl of helicopters spinning up echoed in the distance.

Well, you were going to get in a fight anyway. Might as well
get in one where you actually stand a chance.

Since the last attack on the SASS, Bookbinder carried three loaded magazines as he was supposed to do at all times.

He drew his pistol. It looked unfamiliar in his hand—heavy, thick. He took the weapon off safety, kept his finger off the trigger, and raced in the general direction of the chaos. En route, he spotted an electric cart heaped with helmets and body armor, two goblin contractors jogging behind, keeping the heap from tumbling off.

“You! Stop! I need gear!” he shouted. The driver stopped the cart, hopping out and saluting. The soldier sized him up, pressed him a vest and helmet, saluted again, then jumped back on the cart. “Good luck, sir!”

Bookbinder donned the gear, still amazed at what a little yelling had done, and followed behind. The crowd jostled as he moved closer, pushing through a wall of dark smoke, blanketed by noise; screams, gunfire, explosions, the sizzle and crackle of magic. In the midst of the press, choking on the brimstone stink of powdered concrete and cordite, all the people blended together. In this darkness and confusion, there was no branch, no rank, not even faces. There were just people, lots of them, all moving toward a common goal. Here, Bookbinder wasn’t an administrative colonel, he was just another grunt, doing his part.

The peace it gave him would have been shocking if it weren’t so soothing. He was smiling as he stepped out of the cloud of smoke.

And into hell.

He’d thought the indirect fire had hardened him. He’d shuddered through loud explosions, smelled the ozone stink of impacting magic, heard the screams and even seen the charred corpses of the dead.

It was nothing.

The SASS perimeter was a broken jumble of cracked concrete barricades and burning heaps of razor wire topped fencing.

The newly erected guard tower had collapsed, igniting the magazine of the Mark 19 grenade launcher. The crew’s remains were strewn about the wreckage, hands, half a torso, smoldering boots.

Two SOC Terramancers crouched in the wreckage, calling up a shelf of earth that provided much needed cover from the sea of goblins surging beyond. Bookbinder hadn’t known that so many of the creatures existed in the entire Source. They trooped forward, many mounted on enormous, snarling wolves.

Their sorcerers came with them, skin painted chalk white, hands crackling with magical energy. The horde hummed with rage, a drone so loud that it competed with the steady stream of gunfire mounting from the defense. Clouds of arrows, javelins and gunfire erupted from the goblin throng, undisciplined bursts of fire that were effective through sheer volume. A woman beside Bookbinder coughed blood and collapsed.

A SOC Aeromancer streaked overhead, lightning arcing from his fingers and plowing into the goblin mass, setting scores of them alight before a roc crashed into him, sending him spinning catching him in its beak, cracking his spine.

The rocks in the earth barricade glowed red-hot as a goblin Pyromancer arced a pillar of flame across it, sending one of the Terramancers and three other defenders screaming, beating at the flames.

A Stryker crested the rubble behind Bookbinder, the gunner letting off a brief stream of rounds from the fifty cal, then pausing as Colonel Taylor appeared, climbing the Stryker’s standoff armor and yelling at him, waving frantically.

And then Taylor’s eyes widened. He dove off the turret just as the gunner tried to duck below. A massive chunk of a barricade wall, rebar jutting from its jagged edges, knocked the turret clean off, sending it tumbling through the defenders, eliciting a chorus of screams. The dull thudding of approaching helicopters was momentarily drowned out by a roar of rage.

Taylor scrambled to his feet as Bookbinder turned.

Two huge creatures advanced through the goblins, each taller than any of the FOB’s low buildings. They looked much like the goblins that barely reached above their shins; the same brown, gnarled skin. The same pointed ears and hooked noses. But there the similarity ended. Where the goblins were lean, these things were as thick as iron girders.

One of them roared again, swinging an oddly shaped club.

Bookbinder realized it was the shorn turret of an Abrams tank.

One of the helicopters swooped low, miniguns opening on the creature, then began to spin as a summoned wind knocked it in a tight circle, a goblin Aeromancer rising over the creature’s head. The giant snatched the helo’s tail boom, stopping it in midair, leaning dramatically to avoid the spinning rotors. The pilots and crew tumbled out the side, screaming, disappearing in the horde of goblins beneath them. The giant roared and cast the helicopter into what remained of the Terramancer’s barricade, flipping it over and tumbling into the defenders, who fell back.

“Come on!” Bookbinder shouted, striding forward. He leveled his pistol and squeezed off a few rounds, certain he wasn’t hitting even the massive targets presented by the giants. “You scared of a couple of big goblins?”
You sound like an idiot. A

scared idiot.

But a small company of soldiers looked up at him, shamefaced, then took to their knees, finding cover in the broken rubble, firing into the approaching mass. An arrow whizzed close enough that he felt the fletching cut across his cheek.
Get down!
his mind screamed, but he forced himself to walk among the defenders, shouting encouragement. What would Patton say at a time like this? Oh Christ, he had no damned idea. “Pour it on, people!” he tried. He was terrified, but the wooden feeling in his limbs was gone.
Well, at least if the goblins kill me, I don’t have
to face Taylor.

Pillars of flame erupted in the goblin ranks as SOC Pyromancers secured positions in the wreckage. A figure rose out of the ground and wrestled with one of the giants, some Terramancer’s automaton, taking the drubbing from the swinging tank turret, but re–forming just as quickly, its rock fists giving as good as it got.

Bookbinder tried to keep his shoulders back, his chin up. He fired more shots in the enemy’s direction. “You’re going to let a bunch of pointy-eared rats overrun your position? Show ’em what you’ve got!” Could they hear the quaver in his voice?

Around him, knots of defenders were coalescing. Here was a group of Suppressed Marines setting up a belt-fed grenade launcher. There was an army sniper team, picking targets quickly, the need to aim obviated by the enemy’s clustered formation.

Were they actually taking heart from his theatrics? He heard Taylor shouting at some unfortunate soldier. “Conserve your ammunition, damn it!”

Conserve ammunition? In the middle of this?

Suddenly the world spun around him. Something slammed into his head, rattling his teeth. A moment later, he realized it was the ground. The stink of ozone and blood filled his nostrils.

Sound vanished, replaced by a ringing-whine.

He scrambled in the mud, his vision gone. Was he blind? No, he could see light, make out shapes.
Get up! Get up!
But his limbs moved as if through thick water, and he was hot . . . so very hot. The brimstone smell gave way to the acrid stench of burning plastic and hair.His vision returned, and he rose to his knees, bringing one arm into view.

It burned brightly. He was on fire.

Bookbinder screamed, rolling on the ground, beating at the flames.

“I’ve got you, sir,” someone said. He saw a navy sailor running toward him, shouldering his rifle and pulling a water bladder off his back. There was a whoosh and a blazing ball of fire caught him in the chest, sending him tumbling in a heap.

The heat subsided as Bookbinder rolled in the mud, until he bumped against the shins of a goblin. It was painted entirely chalk white, it’s wizened features contorted with hate. It bent over and gripped the front of his smoldering body armor, hauling him to his knees. The goblin’s magical current eddied out from it, so strong that it nearly overwhelmed him.

Well-done,
he thought.
You were the only one walking
around while everyone else was taking cover. You were so
brave, you managed to attract one of their Sorcerers.

The creature’s fist ignited in a ball of flame. It spit something in its own language, raising its hand.

Bookbinder’s current surged forward, borne on his panic. It interlaced with the goblin’s. Where it tugged at other magical currents during testing, now it wrenched, and Bookbinder felt the creature’s magic break free, funneled away from it. The goblin’s eyes shot open in terror, and it dropped him, jumping backward, its fire fizzling out. Bookbinder felt its current passing into him, threatening to tear him apart. He pushed with everything he had, channeling the foreign current out of him, forcing it into a chunk of concrete barricade that he was braced against.

And then the current was gone. There was an odd silence.

The goblin stared at him, its expression horrified, as if to say
How could you?

Bookbinder raised his pistol and shot it.

For all his lack of practice, he caught the creature in the middle of its forehead. Its look of horrified violation turned to surprise, then emptiness, then it fell over on its side, shuddered, and was still.

Bookbinder looked down. The chunk of concrete he had leaned against now smoldered with Pyromantic fire. It began to flake apart, the rebar inside glowing a dull red. Magical flame danced across its surface, dusting the air with black smoke.

Bookbinder could feel the dead goblin’s current, now coming from that chunk of wreckage. His own tide vaguely flickered through him, pulsing toward it.

He furrowed his brow and rolled the tide back. A moment later, the sense of the goblin’s current ceased, the fire flickering out, until it was just an ordinary chunk of masonry again.

And then Bookbinder noticed that the tide of battle had turned.

An avenue of gore opened through the goblins, wide as a two-lane road. The ground churned to mud beneath a carpet of lead, chunks of earth the size of a man’s fist bouncing skyward to mix with the shredded flesh of goblin, wolf, and giant alike.